Page 86 of Knuckles & Knives
“Clear,” he reports, his voice rougher than usual.
“Beautiful work,” I tell him, and watch his pupils dilate at the praise.
We advance deeper into Sterling’s territory, Dom leading our formation with the confidence of a man in his natural habitat. The main club level sprawls before us—a maze of VIP rooms, private booths, and hidden passages that Dom navigates like he built them himself.
“Remember,” I whisper as we reach the central hub, “we need Sterling alive for information. Everyone else is expendable.”
“Copy that,” comes the coordinated response from my four men.
But Sterling’s security team has other ideas.
The attack comes from three directions simultaneously—professional, coordinated, designed to overwhelm through sheer numbers. What they don’t account for is Dom’s ability to turn any environment into his advantage.
He uses the club’s architecture like a weapon, positioning himself so attackers can only approach from limited angles. A bar stool becomes a projectile that takes out one gunman. The brass rail rips free under his hands, becoming a staff that drops two more.
“Holy shit,” Kieran mutters, his usual composure cracking as he watches Dom systematically dismantle eight trained operatives. “I’ve seen him fight before, but never like this.”
Never protecting me, he means. Because this isn’t just Dom the enforcer doing his job—this is Dom the lover defending his woman, and the difference is terrifying to witness.
A Sterling operative manages to get behind Dom’s guard, knife raised for a killing blow. Without thinking, I move, my own blade finding the attacker’s wrist before he can complete thestrike. The man screams, dropping his weapon as blood pours from the severed tendons.
Dom spins at the sound, his eyes finding me locked in combat with my own attacker. It defies physics and tactical sense, but Dom seemingly crosses fifteen feet of space in under two seconds, his massive hands closing around my opponent’s throat with lethal intent.
“Don’t. Touch. Her,” he growls, each word punctuated by increased pressure.
“Dom,” I say quietly. “I need him conscious for questioning.”
For a moment, I think he might ignore the order. The territorial fury burning in his dark eyes suggests he’s operating on pure instinct now, and that instinct says to eliminate any threat to me permanently.
But then his training reasserts itself. Dom releases the man, who collapses gasping to the floor, alive but thoroughly neutralized.
“Ma’am,” Dom says, acknowledging my authority even as his body remains coiled for violence.
The formal address in the middle of battle sends heat pooling low in my belly. Even like this—covered in other men’s blood, surrounded by unconscious enemies—Dom’s submission to my command is absolute.
“Status report,” I order, trying to focus on tactical necessities instead of the way Dom’s chest rises and falls with controlled breathing.
“Twenty-three hostiles neutralized,” Marcus reports efficiently. “No casualties on our side. Sterling’s inner sanctum is thirty meters ahead.”
“Any surprises waiting for us?”
“Thermal imaging shows four heat signatures in the main office. Probably Sterling plus three bodyguards.”
“Trap potential?”
“High,” Kieran interjects. “But manageable if we maintain tactical superiority.”
I look around at my men—my deadly, devoted, absolutely lethal men—and feel that familiar surge of confidence that comes from having the right tools for an impossible job.
“Dom takes point on entry,” I decide. “Kieran and Marcus flank left and right. Axel provides chaos coverage. I want Sterling alive and talking within five minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” comes the coordinated response.
But as we approach Sterling’s stronghold, Dom catches my arm, his massive hand gentle despite the violence still radiating from his frame.
“Raven,” he says quietly, using my name instead of my title for the first time since I established dominance. “After this is over…”
“Yes?”
